The best-laid plans . . .
Today I got so frustrated with my second class that I actually packed up my bag, turned off my computer, and readied myself to walk out the door and go home. I hadn’t worked out if I was ever going to come back, but I knew for damn sure I wasn’t coming in tomorrow.
It’s not that there was a fight in my class today, or three false fire alarms, or that anyone suggested they would hit me if I didn’t let them leave my classroom. It’s just that I’m getting tired of teaching 3rd-graders who inhabit 10th-grader bodies. Most of them come to class late, and then try to argue that they are on time—even though the bell rang maybe 20 minutes ago. They break into song—loud song—in the middle of my instruction. They talk amongst themselves while I explain the assignment, and then ask me later what they are supposed to be doing. They come to class without a pen, and then ask to go to their locker to get one. They walk to the door and stand there, chatting with people in the hallway who should be in class. I could go on and on, but just the memory of their rude and inconsiderate behavior makes my blood pressure rise.
To be fair, not all of my students are like this. In fact, individually, most of them are quite pleasant. But get them into a group, and it becomes apparent that they thrive on chaos. When they are at their worst, it’s like I’m being worried at by a pack of rabid dogs, who will take turns nipping and biting and tearing away my flesh until I collapse in a dizzy, bloody, exhausted heap, just waiting to get my throat ripped out.
My second class today was like this. I can’t even remember details, just the emotions: the frustration, the anger, the sadness, the depression, the almost overwhelming urge to slap them around until they will sit still and listen. The fourth time someone asked me to explain the assignment to them in a tone that accused me of never having explained it in the first place, I clammed up, sat at my desk, and got out my dog-eared copy of Dan Simmon’s Ilium. It’s a comfort book. I read it in something like two days over the summer—all 725 trade paper back pages of it. I bored into the book like a badger into its den. I was pissed, and I wasn’t coming out.
At first, nobody noticed. And then students started asking me questions. When I didn’t respond—didn’t look up, didn’t answer, didn’t move except to turn the page—then they noticed. And the classroom got kind of quiet, although not dead silent. To hell with ‘em, I thought.
But I couldn’t curb the teacher impulse in me. I wanted to make these kids understand . . . anything. I tried to explain that I was frustrated because I love to read and I want to share that with them and—well, then another late student knocked on the door and screwed my litany all to hell. I should have just given up and gone back to reading. Instead, I started exchanging emails with Lisa about the wisdom of quitting before we were living together, before I found a new job. Yeah, it wouldn’t be wise, but dammit I just wanted out of this madness.
That’s when I turned off my computer and put Ilium and my water bottles in my pack. I was ready to leave.
Of course, I chickened out. I stayed, and stayed furious. Furious at these kids for acting like kindergarteners. Furious at their parents for raising them that way. Furious at a society that would allow the kind of poverty that shapes parents to raise their kids that way. Just furious, a cold, focused fury that kept repeating, over and over in my mind I need to leave, I need to leave, I need to leave.
Class finally ended; I got to take my lunch. It went by too quickly: when the bell for my next class rang, I was immediately filled with dread and loathing. Damn it all, I’d just have to stand up and teach, barrel my way through 90 minutes and screw anyone who didn’t want to follow along.
Class began. Then the students showed up. I gave some instruction, they talked amongst themselves. I gave an assignment, they kept talking. I tried to review the assignment after 10 minutes, they kept talking. At this point, I was so frustrated, so disappointed that I hadn’t at least gone home during lunch, that I whipped off a quick email to my boss: “I’m not coming in tomorrow, CR.” At least now I had a day of job-hunting to look forward to.
I handed out another assignment. They kept talking. I explained the assignment. They kept talking. One or two of them asked questions about the first assignment. Then others asked for their make-up work from two days ago. I ignored them and moved on to The Giver. My lesson plans stated that we’d be on chapter 9 by Friday. Some students are still on page 1. I explained that I was going to read to them for a little while, to make sure they all got the same start, to make sure they were all on the same page. Then I started reading.
Most of them just kept talking, but “Daryl,” at least, was following along word for word in his copy of The Giver. I read for him, to him, directing my voice directly at him from the front of the room. I would periodically stop to ask a clarifying question, to make sure they were keeping up with me. Daryl would answer, and I’d keep reading. Then I noticed that J’rell was also following along. I moved to the back of the room so they could hear me better as I read page after page. After about 20 minutes of my reading, answering Daryl’s questions, discussing my answers with Daryl and J’rell (who had read the book in 7th grade, like most students around here do) Erin moved from her desk near the loud talking group of girls to a desk near Daryl, J’rell, and me. She was actively following along. She was asking questions, making comments.
I kept reading. I read for 30 minutes. I stopped, looked at the clock. Standard operating procedure is to move on to a different part of the lesson during the final 20 minutes of class, but I was on a roll, so I asked Daryl and J’rell and Erin if they wanted to keep going. They said yes immediately.
So I kept reading. And by then, most of the rest of the sometime-almost-overpowering chatter had died down, and a few other students were following along. Of course, at least three were sleeping, and three had walked out, but all I really cared about at that point was reading.
With five minutes to go, I stopped, asked someone to put the books away, and then Erin looked up at me and said “Mr. Richardson, can we do this again tomorrow?”
Dammit, I thought, now I have to come in tomorrow.
And that good feeling lasted until 15 minutes after class was over, when Shantice stopped by to get her grade report and do some of her missing work.
On the one hand, I was glad to see that she wanted to take some responsibility for her grade and work to change the F it had fallen to. On the other hand, her grade would never have fallen so far and she wouldn’t have had to stay after school if she had just paid a little attention when we did these assignments in class. This garish juxtaposition of wisdom and idiocy drives me crazy. I think it’s called “being a teenager,” but having a name for it doesn’t make it any easier for me to deal with.
While Shantice did her work, I went downstairs to punch out and ran into my boss. We started chatting, she opened the email I had sent, and worked her way around to convincing me to come in tomorrow. I don’t really want to. I could use the day off. But, well, like my boss said, it’s only one more day . . .
Besides, I forgot my 40-gig external hard drive on my desk at school, and I don’t trust my students to leave it there until Monday.
It’s not that there was a fight in my class today, or three false fire alarms, or that anyone suggested they would hit me if I didn’t let them leave my classroom. It’s just that I’m getting tired of teaching 3rd-graders who inhabit 10th-grader bodies. Most of them come to class late, and then try to argue that they are on time—even though the bell rang maybe 20 minutes ago. They break into song—loud song—in the middle of my instruction. They talk amongst themselves while I explain the assignment, and then ask me later what they are supposed to be doing. They come to class without a pen, and then ask to go to their locker to get one. They walk to the door and stand there, chatting with people in the hallway who should be in class. I could go on and on, but just the memory of their rude and inconsiderate behavior makes my blood pressure rise.
To be fair, not all of my students are like this. In fact, individually, most of them are quite pleasant. But get them into a group, and it becomes apparent that they thrive on chaos. When they are at their worst, it’s like I’m being worried at by a pack of rabid dogs, who will take turns nipping and biting and tearing away my flesh until I collapse in a dizzy, bloody, exhausted heap, just waiting to get my throat ripped out.
My second class today was like this. I can’t even remember details, just the emotions: the frustration, the anger, the sadness, the depression, the almost overwhelming urge to slap them around until they will sit still and listen. The fourth time someone asked me to explain the assignment to them in a tone that accused me of never having explained it in the first place, I clammed up, sat at my desk, and got out my dog-eared copy of Dan Simmon’s Ilium. It’s a comfort book. I read it in something like two days over the summer—all 725 trade paper back pages of it. I bored into the book like a badger into its den. I was pissed, and I wasn’t coming out.
At first, nobody noticed. And then students started asking me questions. When I didn’t respond—didn’t look up, didn’t answer, didn’t move except to turn the page—then they noticed. And the classroom got kind of quiet, although not dead silent. To hell with ‘em, I thought.
But I couldn’t curb the teacher impulse in me. I wanted to make these kids understand . . . anything. I tried to explain that I was frustrated because I love to read and I want to share that with them and—well, then another late student knocked on the door and screwed my litany all to hell. I should have just given up and gone back to reading. Instead, I started exchanging emails with Lisa about the wisdom of quitting before we were living together, before I found a new job. Yeah, it wouldn’t be wise, but dammit I just wanted out of this madness.
That’s when I turned off my computer and put Ilium and my water bottles in my pack. I was ready to leave.
Of course, I chickened out. I stayed, and stayed furious. Furious at these kids for acting like kindergarteners. Furious at their parents for raising them that way. Furious at a society that would allow the kind of poverty that shapes parents to raise their kids that way. Just furious, a cold, focused fury that kept repeating, over and over in my mind I need to leave, I need to leave, I need to leave.
Class finally ended; I got to take my lunch. It went by too quickly: when the bell for my next class rang, I was immediately filled with dread and loathing. Damn it all, I’d just have to stand up and teach, barrel my way through 90 minutes and screw anyone who didn’t want to follow along.
Class began. Then the students showed up. I gave some instruction, they talked amongst themselves. I gave an assignment, they kept talking. I tried to review the assignment after 10 minutes, they kept talking. At this point, I was so frustrated, so disappointed that I hadn’t at least gone home during lunch, that I whipped off a quick email to my boss: “I’m not coming in tomorrow, CR.” At least now I had a day of job-hunting to look forward to.
I handed out another assignment. They kept talking. I explained the assignment. They kept talking. One or two of them asked questions about the first assignment. Then others asked for their make-up work from two days ago. I ignored them and moved on to The Giver. My lesson plans stated that we’d be on chapter 9 by Friday. Some students are still on page 1. I explained that I was going to read to them for a little while, to make sure they all got the same start, to make sure they were all on the same page. Then I started reading.
Most of them just kept talking, but “Daryl,” at least, was following along word for word in his copy of The Giver. I read for him, to him, directing my voice directly at him from the front of the room. I would periodically stop to ask a clarifying question, to make sure they were keeping up with me. Daryl would answer, and I’d keep reading. Then I noticed that J’rell was also following along. I moved to the back of the room so they could hear me better as I read page after page. After about 20 minutes of my reading, answering Daryl’s questions, discussing my answers with Daryl and J’rell (who had read the book in 7th grade, like most students around here do) Erin moved from her desk near the loud talking group of girls to a desk near Daryl, J’rell, and me. She was actively following along. She was asking questions, making comments.
I kept reading. I read for 30 minutes. I stopped, looked at the clock. Standard operating procedure is to move on to a different part of the lesson during the final 20 minutes of class, but I was on a roll, so I asked Daryl and J’rell and Erin if they wanted to keep going. They said yes immediately.
So I kept reading. And by then, most of the rest of the sometime-almost-overpowering chatter had died down, and a few other students were following along. Of course, at least three were sleeping, and three had walked out, but all I really cared about at that point was reading.
With five minutes to go, I stopped, asked someone to put the books away, and then Erin looked up at me and said “Mr. Richardson, can we do this again tomorrow?”
Dammit, I thought, now I have to come in tomorrow.
And that good feeling lasted until 15 minutes after class was over, when Shantice stopped by to get her grade report and do some of her missing work.
On the one hand, I was glad to see that she wanted to take some responsibility for her grade and work to change the F it had fallen to. On the other hand, her grade would never have fallen so far and she wouldn’t have had to stay after school if she had just paid a little attention when we did these assignments in class. This garish juxtaposition of wisdom and idiocy drives me crazy. I think it’s called “being a teenager,” but having a name for it doesn’t make it any easier for me to deal with.
While Shantice did her work, I went downstairs to punch out and ran into my boss. We started chatting, she opened the email I had sent, and worked her way around to convincing me to come in tomorrow. I don’t really want to. I could use the day off. But, well, like my boss said, it’s only one more day . . .
Besides, I forgot my 40-gig external hard drive on my desk at school, and I don’t trust my students to leave it there until Monday.
posted by Christopher at
10:19 PM
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